


Pretty Boy

by TenYearMan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Bittersweet, Bottom Kylo Ren, Cyborg Ren, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally stunted dorks, Fluff, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Prosthetics, Smut, They don't know but they're making it work, Top Hux, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenYearMan/pseuds/TenYearMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Starkiller Base, Ren is left with more than a wounded pride and a few scars. Hux tries to fix things, as best as he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Boy

**Author's Note:**

> If you squint your eyes and tilt your head to the left, you might catch a hint of plot in and among this Wonderfully Hot Mess.  
> [Now with this absolutely GORGEOUS piece of art by **artyaourter** over on Tumblr.](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/post/147822838911/kylux-33-days-of-guro-via-saltandlimes-brought)

He hates it, absolutely hates it. The scar was bad enough but now this? This cobbled-together monstrosity as though he weren't all angles and curves in the wrong places to begin with? He wears his mask, hides at every conceivable opportunity and breaks mirrors in fits of pique until Hux corners him one day, backs him between himself and no exit. 

" _ Show me _ ." 

And Ren can't. For all the authority in Hux's voice, he cannot bring himself to remove the damn thing though at the same time he does nothing when Hux reaches for the release mechanism himself, revealing a blasted false eye and a meandering, ribboned scar that flares at his jaw and tapers when it hits the point of his brow.

It's an ugly thing. The First Order doesn't take kindly to traumatic injury, to illness. There are no contingencies for a Trooper who loses their hand. They're taken out back, shot. Left. Ren is different, however. For all of his failures, Snoke still wants him alive, and Hux? Hux has a very vested interest in keeping Ren stitched together.

The eye is a brassy color - something put together on short notice by hands better-suited to building TIE fighters. They didn't have a chance to stop and have it made professionally. Perhaps they never would. It works, at least. Rolls in its socket and sees the world the same as the other one. Better, even. Hux has had a few additional capabilities added, and Ren may have even enjoyed such perks as an infrared sensor were he not otherwise preoccupied with his own appearance, with the way Hux stares at him now, scrutinizing the scar and the eye and no doubt finding both lacking. Hux does scrutinize. What he doesn't do, however, is find Ren  _ lacking _ . 

Ren flinches when Hux touches him, when he curls a palm against the scar and presses his fingers where there is skin-warmed metal and wires that don't quite fit into the socket. Ren is disgusted. Hux is endlessly fascinated, tracing the seam where skin meets metal with the leather-clad tip of a finger. "Does it still hurt?" 

"No." Ren answers sullenly, like he kind of wishes it would, and avoids eye contact.

Hux doesn’t let him. He never lets him, and it's infuriating. Ren can refuse, of course. He can lock his jaw and keep his chin tipped down but when Hux nudges he turns and meets those bright blue eyes. The infrared doesn't do a thing for him here. 

"This is why you've been avoiding me." It's not a question so Ren doesn't need to answer it, glancing away when it seems like Hux has finally gotten his fill of eye contact. Hux huffs a sharp breath that might be a snort, if Ren was feeling up to adding even more insult to injury. "Idiot." The General does it for him anyway, and the brief flash of anger Ren feels is quelled only when Hux presses the barest flicker of a kiss to his jaw, opposite where the scar is. 

They're in a hall, out in public where anyone can see, but Hux is smarter than that - possibly smarter than anyone in the entire damn quadrant. He knows where every camera is and when every patrol comes through the Finalizer's halls, and places them in the perfect position that they can't be seen and that his gentle hold on Ren's face might look more like a violent grip. "If you're truly concerned," Hux continues, taking a step back. Ren scrambles to put his helmet on before a pair of Troopers turn the corner. "I would suggest you come by my offices so that we might go over the details again."

They leave separately, and the sentry passes without suspecting a thing. Hux returns to his personal office, where stacks of flimsi – an outdated form of information-keeping, undoubtedly, but one that he employs for personal reasons – are waiting on him. They’re safer, in a lot of ways. He’s sat in his chair when Kylo Ren sweeps through the door, looking imposing in his mask and his tattered cloak. The door hisses shut, and then it’s silent, thick and cloying around them. Ren gives in first – Hux won’t even look at him, rat bastard – pulling his helmet off with a hiss of hydraulics. Hux knows it’s all for kriffing show and rolls his eyes at the drama, pretending to read and leaving Ren to simmer in his own impatience. Clearly, he’s not much better. 

“ _ Well _ ?” So angry, Ren. Angry and self-conscious with his face exposed to the elements all over again, shame written in the distasteful curl of his mouth and the way the scar twists with every over-exaggerated expression he makes. Hux finally looks up, and Ren still can’t hold the man’s sharp gaze. 

“Have a seat.” There’s only one damn chair in the room, and Hux just so happens to be in it, rolled out from under the desk and looking for all intents and purposes like a king perched on a throne. Ren does not sit, but he does shift from one leg to the other, fidgeting. He’s nervous. Hux hasn’t given him a verdict yet, hasn’t spoken a word besides calling him rude names. The kiss is inconsequential, because with Hux it could mean nothing or it could mean everything. Ren hates how hard he is to read and yet he wouldn’t dare to take the thoughts himself, something about bullying his way into Hux’s fragile head not sitting well with him. 

Maybe he’s still bitter about that time Hux had the gall to suggest resorting to the Force against someone who couldn’t use it was a ‘ _ cheap trick’ _ . Bastard probably knew the words would stay with Ren. He’d probably planned it like that. Ren wouldn’t have  put it past him, anyway. 

“Come here, Ren.” At some point, Hux had lost his gloves, revealing his delicate wrists and long, finely-manicured fingers. Ren wonders idly if he’s ever had his nails pulled out, and steps around the side of the desk, caught between durasteel and Hux, who doesn’t hesitate to roll in close enough that his knees bracket Ren’s thighs on either side, literally caging him in. Bastard.

Hux gestures, crooking those long fingers until Ren gives in and bends slightly at the waist just close enough for Hux to take his face again. He knows resisting would only result in Hux taking him by the collar and yanking him down, and he’d prefer to spare himself that indignity if at all possible. Hux’s hands are warm, probably from the gloves, and soft enough that Ren has a sneaking suspicion one of the drawers behind him contains at least one tub of moisturizer. He doesn’t comment, but it’s a near thing. 

Instead, he closes his eyes. Eye. Closes his eye. The other one doesn’t – doesn’t have a lid. It always sees, add that to the list of things Ren hates about it. He’s taken to covering it with a crudely-made patch whenever he sleeps, which isn’t terribly often to begin with, but it helps. It’s dark, and he can close the other one and pretend like he still has both in the middle of the night. Now he has no choice but to see, to observe Hux’s face while Hux observes him in turn. 

The man is surprisingly tender, the way he holds Ren’s face. Those soft fingers turn his head this way and that, and when Ren’s faces right, he can stare at the far wall with the new eye and get a break from the intensity of the General’s gaze. The reprieve doesn’t last nearly as long as he wishes it to. They’re making eye contact again, Hux’s bare thumb petting over the scar and the skin beside it like he’s comparing the different textures. He knows Ren sees him, and yet he doesn’t bother to hide his curiosity, nor his admiration – if Ren is reading him right. He doesn’t know. He never knows, with Hux. 

What he does know, and very well by this point in their… acquaintanceship, is how Hux’s body moves just before a kiss. His chin tips up, his hands tighten, holding Ren’s face steady. Shoulders tense and breath whooshes in on an inhale, then Hux very barely moves, bringing Ren down more than lifting himself up to press their mouths together. 

It’s lazy, slow and languid without being overbearing, like a light supper or a cool breeze. Hux rarely kisses to convey an emotion, Ren has found. He prefers to use his words even when it sounds like he’s pulling his own teeth to offer an apology or a begrudging compliment. No, he kisses purely for the fun of it, because he wants to, because he finds the curve of Ren’s mouth ‘pretty,’ or ‘sweet’ or wants to bite it bloody just to make Ren wince. His words. 

Ren, however, is not so simple in his hedonism. He sags, relieved, sinking further against Hux and bringing his hands up to settle on the man’s shoulders, to steady himself in the face of – whatever. Whatever. They kiss, and Hux still touches the scar, still traces the edge of the eye, and Ren’s skin still crawls. 

“You might as well get used to them,” the General comments once they part, leaving Ren’s mouth a pretty, cherry-colored slash. Ren wants to pout; he doesn’t. 

“Can’t give me a week, can you?”  But he does sound like it. 

“You can mope later, if you’re so inclined.” They’re on a schedule, now. One that is growing increasingly tighter as the days wear on after the destruction of the Hosnian system. The failure at Starkiller Base is completely inconsequential, and it will not be long before Snoke clues in on that. 

That doesn’t mean Hux cannot take an hour of leisure time. His fingers slip lower, past the sharp edge of Ren’s jaw and over the fabric of his cowl. It’s entirely planned, strategized fifty different ways before Ren so much as stepped into the room. Ren knows this, and yet he follows Hux’s lead, letting the man ease the heavy fabric from his shoulders. It thumps onto the desk behind him, scattering a few loose sheets of flimsi. Ren doesn’t care. Hux does, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, deft fingers working at the straps and clasps of Ren’s robe so that it too can go the way of the cowl. 

It’s intricate, and Ren doesn’t help at all, making a nuisance of himself with that cherry-red mouth attached to Hux’s jaw. This close, he can pretend that both eyes are closed. Everything is blurred around the edges, though the machine focuses and re-focuses every few seconds until Ren feels a headache coming on. It’s infuriating. He huffs a growl like an agitated hound against Hux’s throat above where the collar of his uniform begins. Hux responds to that by turning his head slightly, just enough to tease a kiss against Ren’s scar before he’s gone again, refocusing on the task of getting those ridiculous layers off of him.

Cloth flutters to the ground, stitch after stitch removed until Ren feels at least thirty pounds lighter. His belt is tossed to the left, his tunic to the right, then he’s left in a pair of arm-guards and little else above the waist. He’s somehow managed to find himself with his knees on either side of Hux’s thighs, perched on his lap in the chair while they kiss and Hux occasionally lavishes unwanted attention on the scar and the eye. It’s conditioning, Ren knows that. Hux needs him to get over the prosthetic, the shame of the scavenger’s marks upon his body, as quickly as possible, and he’s found the quickest way to acclimate Ren to his new…  _ gifts _ . It’s why he’s not said a word on the matter, yet. He hasn’t called them hideous (they are), hasn’t expressed his shame (he should), hasn’t tried to offer any condolences for Ren’s disfigurement (he wouldn’t, anyway). All he’s done is kiss Ren quiet and strip him bare, palms flat against his ribs. Ren takes a deep breath just to feel the pressure of Hux’s hands, then exhales slowly. He thinks Hux likes feeling the rise and fall of his chest, but he can’t be too sure. 

The other wounds are less noticeable, though that may be entirely because of their location under his clothes. The Wookie’s blaster shot is little more than a small pucker, and his shoulder scar is hardly visible. His face, though. His face. It had never been what Ren would consider ‘attractive’. Too long in the forehead and too large in the nose, it’s as unwieldy as the rest of him, a combination of hard and soft with moles slapped on for good measure as if the rest isn’t bad enough. 

Hux calls him ‘pretty,’ sometimes. Ren doesn’t believe it, but he does take the compliments when they come. He wonders if they’ll come now, after this, but doesn’t have much chance to voice his concerns, caught up in another kiss. Hux is merciless even in this, dragging his teeth over Ren’s bottom lip as though that might distract him from what deft fingers are doing to the clasps of his trousers ( _ leggings _ , Hux calls them when he’s feeling particularly contrarian; leggings and a pretty dress, with a fetching thigh slit and everything), undressing him while Hux remains fully clothed. 

Ren doesn’t bother to reciprocate. His hands feel like they’re glued in place on Hux’s shoulders, stuck there by some force more compelling than his own. He kisses, though, like he’s trying to bite Hux’s lip bloody, scraping his teeth over the bottom one before pulling, pulling hard enough that below him, Hux growls. 

He feels the last of the buckles give, feels Hux pat his thigh until he’s lifting himself onto his knees, feels the fabric shoved down past the curve of his ass, more moles and dark hair and the length of his dick, and he has no time to feel self-conscious when he’s the only one naked. It always seems to end up like this, either through his own impatience or Hux’s deliberate planning. The wraps around his legs are shoved as far as his calves and promptly forgotten, leaving Ren to unbuckle his own boots if he wants to get his clothes the rest of the way off. Hux doesn’t give him the chance to do so; they’re kissing again, Hux’s palms on his abs, over his scar, up and pressed to his shoulder blades like he can haul Ren even closer. He can’t, but  _ kriff _ if he doesn’t try. 

How long they sit like that, with Ren caught in a limbo between Hux’s mouth and Hux’s wandering hands, he’s not sure. It can’t have been more than a few minutes. Hux is nothing if not efficient, and in his office, he doesn’t have a tendency to linger like he sometimes does when they’re in the same bed. Ren bites his lip, tastes blood, and before he has a chance to enjoy the hiss of pain from the other man, they’re moving, shifting together off the chair and onto the table. Hux isn’t actually that strong, but the distance isn’t that far and he more shoves Ren onto the desk rather than picks him up and sets him down. Either way, Ren’s bare ass hits the edge and the rest of him follows, flimsi crunching under him and sticking to his skin. He’ll probably end up paying for that later, even if it’s entirely Hux’s fault they’re in this predicament in the first place. 

Again, they’re kissing, Hux’s thin, blood-smeared mouth over his own. Somewhere between them there’s a clack of a belt buckle and the hiss of a zipper, and Ren is like Pavlov’s dog in response to the sound, spreading his thighs once he’s kicked his boots and trousers off at least one leg to accommodate Hux between them. His ankles cross somewhere at the small of Hux’s back, like he can cage the man in and lock him there against his body. Hux finishes stripping him, because Ren can’t rightly be expected to deal with buckles and buttons and clasps when he’s still busy licking blood from the General’s mouth. 

The fabric of Hux’s jacket is smooth against Ren’s chest and the trousers rough on his thighs, which Hux digs bruises into while he adjusts their position. He is, unsurprisingly, prepared for this, and it does nothing to dispel Ren’s notion that this entire thing wasn’t planned. From somewhere, he hears Hux pull out lube, the click of the bottle opening familiar and arousing all on its own. Ren’s dick jumps and he keeps his eyes on the ceiling, hands uselessly gripping at the edge of the desk by his head while he waits and the mechanical eye focuses with a quiet, infuriating whirr. 

“You’re quiet.”

Quieter than normal, perhaps. Hux smears a generous amount of the gel onto his fingers, working it to body temperature with the sort of single-minded intent usually reserved solely for the cleaning and upkeep of his blaster, and then leans back, bracing himself on Ren’s calves with free hand tracing sparks of sensation along the soft, delicate skin on the inside of Ren’s thighs. 

“What would I say?” 

“You could start with a ‘ _ thank you _ ’.” 

“Kriff off.” Bastard. Ren jerks his chin down just in time to shoot Hux a glower. Hux retaliates with a finger,  _ that _ one, pressed relentlessly and without warning against Ren’s pucker; he wins and Ren hisses, tossing his head back with a clang against the durasteel table. 

“ _ Kriffin _ -“ The urge to throw Hux across the room is strong. His sense of self-preservation, however, is just a little bit stronger. Hux pauses, two knuckles deep in the heat of Ren’s body like he’s being  _ benevolent _ , and bends double to kiss Ren’s stomach, deceptively tender until the moment that he bites down, claiming that particular patch of skin for his own with a bruise that Ren wills the healing properties of the Force to ignore. He wants to press his fingers against it later, when he’s alone and able to explore all of the small aches Hux leaves him with. 

When Ren relaxes – and he does relax, dropping one hand to curl around the back of Hux’s neck with his fingers buried in the short-cropped hair at the nape – Hux moves again, slower now until that one finger is pressed all the way inside. The kisses, bites – whatever – don’t stop, either, left in a trail of mottled red over Ren’s ribs and back up to where the scar feels like it’s burning his jaw. Hux’s tongue darts out, drags slow over the ribboned, raised flesh, and Ren yanks back a fistful of coppery hair. 

“ _ Leave it _ .” It’s kriffing  _ pointless _ , and his temper flares until he’s hauling himself to sitting, pulling,  _ pulling _ so that Hux’s neck is curved back awkwardly, uncomfortably, scowl marring the General’s features. Snapping his neck would be so easy, and it’s honestly through sheer force of will that Ren resists the temptation. He doesn’t need the  _ pity _ . Doesn’t need the reassurance, he tells himself.

They’re caught at an impasse – Hux’s finger still inside him and Ren yanking hard enough he might end up with a tuft of hair left over in his hand once all is said and done. 

He caves first. Caught under the steely, silent glare Hux shoots him he lets go, reluctant, and can only  _ close _ one eye when Hux reaches with his clean hand to haul him in by the chin,  _ by the throat _ , palm tucked under his jaw and fingers digging bruises where his pulse flutters under the skin. This time it’s deliberate, like Hux is looking to teach him a lesson. He  _ licks _ it, from the base of Ren’s jaw where the scar is flared and wide, across his cheek, up to the eye, tongue tracing body-warm metal until Ren feels as though he might crawl out of his skin. The final sweep across the arch of his brow is cruel like the twist of a dagger, leaving Ren weak in the aftermath. 

Hux pushes him down, hand still on his throat, but Ren resists, pushing back until he can’t breathe, until his mouth is parted and each inhale is desperately shallow. He can stay like this for hours if necessary, a tiny rebellion that Hux takes in stride, squeezing once before he returns to the task of opening Ren up. A second finger joins the first even though Ren is hardly ready for either. He hisses but doesn’t argue, biting his own lip against any other noises he might make. Hux doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. 

Hux will take his own satisfaction though, they both know that. He doesn’t need permission. He’ll make Ren keen and whine and beg with little more than two fingers and an ice-cold look, some days, and there isn’t a whole lot Ren can do about it. 

Eventually, Ren tastes copper again. It’s his own blood, lip bitten hard enough that his teeth cut and leave him tonguing at the gash like that might distract from what Hux is doing with his fingers. It doesn’t. He gasps, quiet and desperate, when Hux applies even, torturous pressure against his prostate, milking it until Ren’s hips quiver and every exhale is a tiny grunt of  _ ‘Yes’  _ and  _ ‘Stop’  _ and  _ ‘More’  _ and  _ ‘Kriff _ .’ He doesn’t know what’s good for him, never has, and at one point it hurts but Ren just grinds back down against it, rides the waves until the line between pain and pleasure blurs entirely. His dick bobs obscenely, flushed nearly purple at the tip and smearing pre against his stomach each time that Hux presses inside him just the right way. It’s an issue of pride, now. Hux wants to see him undone – wants to see him begging – and Ren knows he’s going to lose. He  _ knows _ this as viscerally as he knows that Hux is going to fuck him right there on the desk, but it’s not about winning or losing. It’s about how long he can hold out before he catches the smallest of cracks in Hux’s carefully-crafted exterior. Even the slightest give he’ll consider a victory at this point.

Two fingers quickly turn to three, and the burn is nearly enough to have Ren hiccupping a groan, thighs corded tight where they lock around Hux’s waist and grip white-knuckled on the hand around his throat. At least Hux won’t walk away entirely unscathed, the ring of bruises around his forearm something that will remind him for weeks to come of this moment. 

Hux doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the pain, either way keeping to his task until the burn fades into a dull ache entirely eclipsed by that slow, warm need that has Ren’s dick perking up again from where it had softened against his stomach. He exhales slowly, still hyper-aware of the hand around his throat. It doesn’t tighten - not yet - just holds him in place, and Ren stops stubbornly pushing back, too preoccupied with the pleasure that rolls over him in waves to try and retaliate. 

It’s exactly where Hux wants him. The hand around his throat drops and Ren thumps back on the table like a puppet with his strings cut, choking back a low moan as the fingers inside him rub against his prostate cruelly, leaving him to grip the durasteel or else risk bruising Hux to the point where a trip to the Medbay might become necessary. His lip is bleeding again, harder now with the set of his teeth against it, rough treatment in direct response to what Hux is doing to him. Hux knows it’s past pleasant and bordering on painful. He also knows that Ren will die before he tells him to ease up (they’re working on that - they’ve been working on it for months without any headway, it seems), so he gives in an inch, carefully easing his fingers from Ren’s clenching, fluttering hole and soothing his palm over a sparsely-haired, quivering thigh. Ren can’t quite manage to choke back a sob. Hux pretends he doesn’t hear it, running a lube-slick knuckle over the soft skin behind his balls. Maybe it’s an apology. Maybe he’s gearing up to do something that sends Ren flying apart. 

The Knight won’t know until it happens, and it happens rather than with another rough press of fingers, with the tear of a condom package, foil giving easily between Hux’s teeth and then a few seconds (they feel like hours) of nothing but Ren’s heavy breathing while the General rolls the rubber on. He’d always wondered why Hux insists on such careful protection (wouldn’t be opposed, honestly, to walking out of the man’s office or bedroom with spunk leaking from his hole). They’re both clean. But Hux hasn’t told him and Ren only cares enough to be curious when they’re in these moments. Asking now would delay the inevitable, though, and Ren’s smarter than that. Smart enough to know that any word from him might end up with Hux talking instead of fucking, or, if it were something particularly incising, would result in Hux leaving entirely, and in these instances of madness Ren is fair convinced that he would quite literally die if Hux left him hard and wanting. 

So Ren keeps his mouth shut and flexes his thighs and begs with his whole body, arching his back like that might get Hux to move faster. It won’t, but the effort is certainly worth a try in case one day he’s able to break through the General’s steely exterior just by fluttering his lashes the right way.

Hux is more than happy to watch the man below him squirm like that’ll do him any good. He goes through the motions - pulls the rubber out of the package, checks which way it unfurls, then rolls it over the head of his dick, pinching the tip like he always does. It’s very nearly meditative, the way Hux concentrates while he puts it on, but Kylo would bet his front teeth that’s it done purely to test his patience. Hux is a dick in many ways - but especially in that one.

The lube bottle clicks open somewhere off to the side and Ren’s head hits the table again, eyes trained up on the ceiling like that’s going to prepare him for the inevitable press of the flared head of Hux’s dick against his hole. It’s cool, at first; Hux hasn’t done him the liberty of warming the lube between his fingers, and the tip kisses his hole and makes Ren flinch. That, however, fades too fast for Ren to care whatsoever, because, then -  _ oh _ , then. _ Oh, Maker _ . 

Hux pushes forward and Ren chokes on his own tongue, hands scrambling for purchase on the edge of the desk because when Hux starts, he doesn’t stop until he’s all the way down (this applies to  _ many  _ things, as Ren has found on several occasions), the fabric of his jacket rough against Ren’s thighs and the the leather of his lube-slick gloves pinching along his hips. Ren has no choice but to take it, and take it he does. The General has always been fairly thorough in these matters, so it has rarely truly  _ hurt _ , unless one or the other of them made the conscious decision to play it like that. It’s not the case, this time. This time, Hux is very nearly tender. His thumbs rub circles into the dip under Ren’s hip bones until Ren starts to relax, starts to adjust and shift with his legs wrapped around the General. He clenches, experimentally, and the sharp intake of breath from above him is very much worth the resulting pressure against his prostate - Hux punishing him for the cheek, or maybe just an automatic reaction he can’t hold back. Kylo doesn’t think he cares, either way. It’s good. Too good, almost, because the sound he makes is downright-

“ _ Pathetic _ .” 

\- and Hux does it again, then again, until Ren is murmuring out these keening little noises that’re just shy of a proper whimper. Hux doesn’t stop, either. Oh, no. He grinds only as long as it takes him to get bored, then rocks back, Ren’s calves keeping him from pulling out entirely. It’s enough distance that Ren’s ass bounces against his clothed crotch when he shoves back in, so Hux keeps his hands where they are, pressing bruises into Kylo’s hips. 

“ _ Pretty boy _ .” 

Kylo’s all but forgotten what he’d shown up for to begin with, and the words sending a warm flush across his cheekbones and down to his collar don’t help him remember. He’s panting - harsh, breathless little exhales, shallow enough to make him lightheaded - and tilts his head down to get a good look at Hux. His eye focuses automatically and suddenly he remembers. Hux chooses this moment, this perfect, suspended second where Kylo teeters between pleasure and another wash of self-conscious shame, to prize his fingers from his hip and wrap them instead around his cock, stroking firmly from base to tip. Kylo’s head hits the durasteel again, and it’s really even odds whether or not he’s left a skull-shaped crater in the desk at this point. Hux does it again and Kylo’s hips stutter, straining up and then back down against the grind of Hux’s hips. 

There’s sweat dappling his chest, dripping into his good eye and caught at the corners of his mouth. Kylo licks it away - tastes the salt and tang on the tip of his tongue - while Hux leans forward and plants his other hand on the desk, clammy palm skidding over the flimsi until he decisively shoves it away in favor of better leverage. He strokes again, collecting the pre that’s gathered at the tip of Kylo’s dick onto the pad of his thumb, then squeezes just under the head. Kylo bucks wildly and they’re right back in the swing of things, with Hux’s steady, unhurried thrusts and the lube-wet slap of his balls against the curve of Kylo’s ass. 

He sinks more on top of Kylo as the minutes wear on, hair falling from its perfectly-coiffed style and ginger strands sticking to his forehead. Kylo only crowds him closer. His thighs tighten around Hux’s waist, and one hand winds around the back of his neck, dragging him down until Hux’s forehead is pressed to his sternum. 

Kylo covers his face when he comes in an approximation of closing both eyes, moaning low and ragged and so desperate it’s near enough to send Hux flying over the edge as well. 

There’s a bit of come on his jacket - he’s never come out of an encounter where he’s still dressed without needing to launder his entire uniform afterwards - but that makes the next few moments all the hotter. Hux’s ejaculate-smeared hand gripping tight to Ren’s hip, his body shuddering as he fucks into the oversensitive body beneath him once, twice more, then stills, the only indication of of his own orgasm the grunt gritted through tightly-clenched teeth and the way that, afterwards, his whole body seems to slump forward. Hux lets himself lean on Ren, presses his mouth to wet skin and rubs his face all over it like the gesture isn’t absurd and unsanitary. Kylo drags his hand away from his face and rests both on Hux, holding him tight for those few, blissful moments where they’re both post-coital and riding out the waves of residual pleasure. 

It never lasts long, when it’s in Hux’s office or a supply closet or an empty meeting room. Eventually Hux lifts his head, then his torso, then straightens himself out and eases from Ren’s swollen hole, disposing of the condom in a wad of tissues that he also uses to clean himself up with. Kylo is left to tend to his own mess while Hux tucks himself back into his pants and wrinkles his nose at the obvious stain left on his jacket. No matter. His quarters aren’t far, and his shift is almost over, anyway. He’ll clean up the mess Ren has made of his office and then retire to his room. 

Ren, apparently, has different ideas. Still naked and covered in spunk, the Knight sits, blinks one eye while the other focuses, refocuses, then reaches like an overgrown child, taking Hux ‘round the waist and pulling him into a kiss. Even with the prosthesis, his face is painfully open, delicate features twisted into a question he wouldn’t dare ask aloud. 

Hux grips his chin and kisses him again, hard, and he’s smearing even more come into his jacket via whatever dots Ren’s torso but he’s already resigned himself to the fact. He touches scar and metal and tilts his head just the right way, tongue tracing teeth and pressing against Ren’s palate before he eases away entirely. 

“Pretty,  _ pretty  _ boy. Such a shame you hide under that mask.” It very well might sound condescending, but Kylo flushes from the tips of his impressive ears to his hickey-mottled throat and doesn’t make eye contact. Hux doesn’t push it, but before he can step back to let Ren put some kriffing clothes on already, he’s being tugged back in, another fleeting brush of lips exchanged. Then he’s finally released. 

Hux ushers Ren off the desk and begins sorting while the Knight dresses. It’s silent in the room besides the rustle of cloth and the clack of flimsi as Hux re-stacks everything, wiping come and sweat off a few sheets with clear disdain. 

It’s not exactly a  _ fix-it _ , but it’s good enough to ease the worst of whatever has been plaguing Ren’s thoughts and dreams. He even lingers before putting his mask on, watching Hux clean an extra moment. Then he’s gone, the door hissing shut behind him. 

By the time Hux finishes, his shift is well and truly over. He collects his datapad, swings his coat over his shoulders - it’s enough to hide the state of his jacket underneath - and after putting his hair in some semblance of order, sweeps out of the office and down the hall. No one stops him; he looks like he has somewhere important to be, and he doesn’t slow down until he’s in the privacy of his own bedroom, hanging his coat up and tugging off his shoes. 

Some hours later, after he’s washed himself and sent his things to be laundered and crawled under the covers, he feels the bed dip behind him. It’s silent save their shared breaths, and while he knows what Ren is capable of, it always baffles him how a man so large can move so stealthily. Hux says nothing, however. There are arms around his waist, warmth pressed all down his back, and that quiet, soothing whirr of an eye focusing in the dark. It’s better than what could have been, out in the cold and the destruction of the Starkiller Base. 

Hux hooks their ankles together and laces their fingers on his chest, sinking into the press of a kiss - the murmur of something unintelligible - against his shoulder as they both eventually, finally fall asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat about Kylux'n'Things with me on the Tumblr:  
> http://tenyearsexperienceman.tumblr.com/


End file.
